Page 74 of Hello, Summer
“Robinette might or might not have been feeling guilty, but he wasdefinitely feeling generous in this last month or so,” Conley said. “He also ‘sold’ his old house—the one that’s right around the corner from yours and G’mama’s—to his son, Charlie, also for a dollar. The house was assessed at over half a million dollars.”
“I know Charlie’s been living in that house since Symmes and Vanessa moved out to the beach at Sugar Key,” Skelly said. “I guess the old man decided he might as well give it to his kid.”
“And again, the question I have is, why now?”
Skelly looked out the window at the passing scenery. “Maybe… he was feeling his own mortality.”
“Or maybe he knew he had some kind of terminal illness and wanted to assuage his own guilt,” Conley said.
“I wouldn’t know.”
Conley, who’d been watching his expression, pounced. “Youdoknow something. You’re the only pharmacy in town. If Symmes Robinette was sick, you’d know what it was. How bad it was.”
“HIPAA,” Skelly said. “I can’t have this conversation with you, Conley. It’s a violation of my professional ethics.”
“Sorry,” she said, chastened. “The last thing G’mama said before she left to go to church with Grayson this morning was that she didn’t want to get any more phone calls complaining about her pushy granddaughter.”
Skelly had typed the address for Oak Springs in the GPS of his phone, and they were about fifteen miles outside the Silver Bay city limits when he suddenly slowed the Subaru and pulled off the side of the road.
He pointed to a spot on the pavement just a few yards ahead. It hadn’t rained, and the asphalt was still coated with oily black soot, the shoulder littered with glittering pieces of red plastic from the shattered taillights.
“Does this look familiar?” he asked.
Conley’s mouth went dry, and her stomach knotted as she remembered the night of the wreck and the glowing orange of the car fire. “I came past here the other day, but everything looks so different in thelight of day.” She gazed out the window and saw the roof of a small house protruding above the tree line. “I didn’t notice that house before. Wonder who lives there? I wonder if those people saw or heard anything that night?” she mused.
“Good question for the cops,” Skelly said, steering the car back onto the road and resuming normal speed.
“The map says we’re getting close,” he announced a few minutes later. They passed a small billboard proclaimingWELCOME TO BRONSON COUNTY—THIS IS QUAIL COUNTRY.
They heard a soft noise from the back seat. Conley turned to see that Miss June was napping, with Opie sprawled on his back across her lap, also asleep.
“You see that?” she asked.
He glanced in the rearview mirror and smiled. “I think maybe you should bring Opie by to see her more often.”
Five minutes later, they saw a long row of white-painted fencing. “Okay, that’s Riverdale Farm. If I remember correctly, that’s the first one of the big plantations along this road. There are smaller ones scattered around the county, but half a dozen of the biggest ones are right along here.”
“It’s pretty,” Conley said, admiring the rows of neat fencing, the stately, moss-draped oaks, and pristine pastures dotted with cattle, horses, and the occasional mule.
“You’ve never been out here?” he asked, sounding surprised.
“Don’t think so. My dad didn’t hunt at all. And Pops was more into deer hunting than quail. He said quail hunting was like horse breeding. A rich man’s game.”
“He was right about that,” Skelly muttered. “Not many of these places are owned by locals anymore. A lot of these plantations belong to big-money tycoons. They fly in on their private jets during dove or quail season with their billionaire friends, knock down some quail, sip some bourbon, then jet back up north.”
“It’s a nice lifestyle,” she said.
They were passing another plantation now. “I haven’t been out here in ages,” Skelly said, “but now that I see the landscape, I doremember coming out to Oak Springs with my parents when I was a little kid.”
They passed two more plantations, Buie’s Creek and River’s Edge. Eventually, he pulled over at another impressive entranceway. A pair of tall brick columns held a pair of elaborately scrolled wrought iron gates. A discreet sign on one of the pillars announcedOAK SPRINGS FARM, EST. 1902.
“Wow,” Conley said, letting out a low whistle.
Skelly backed the Subaru up a little, then began to pull away.
“What are you doing?” she asked, alarmed. “Stop!”
He stopped the car and gestured at the gate. “You said you wanted to see it. You’ve seen it. We had a nice ride out in the country on a beautiful Sunday. Mama got to hold a dog and take a nap. I call that a win-win.”
